Ahmet Tanpinar - The Time Regulation Institute

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Confused, I looked up at a face I couldn’t at first recognize. Soon I realized it was Dr. Ramiz’s warden. It was ten o’clock, and the director wanted to see me. I got dressed, still badly shaken by the dream. Convinced I would be given the same bad news, I didn’t even bother to ask the warden why I had been summoned. I couldn’t even look him in the eye. It was all over.

Upstairs in his office, the director beamed as he read to me the court decision. He announced that I was now entirely free to go. My eyes were fixed on him as if to say, “But what will I do once I get home? I’ve already lost Emine…” I feared reopening an old wound even though it had been dressed and bandaged long ago; I feared seeing the gaping and untreatable wound that would never fully heal.

Finally the director asked, “But what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just afraid. Afraid of everything.”

He was a fatherly man and knew the workings of the human soul.

“All that will pass,” he said. “You’re now free! No need to worry about a thing!”

And he rose to his feet and told me his side of the story.

“Well, we’ve sent your report to the committee.”

Down in his office, Dr. Ramiz threw his arms around me and cried, “We’ll continue our work elsewhere! Besides, your treatment is over, more or less. We’ll just do a few more sessions and that’s that. And then we’ll prepare that report.”

I suddenly lost my temper. “What report?” I cried.

“My dear, the report for the congress… the formal submission, as they call it, about the interpretation manuals.”

Oh dear!

He helped me pack my things. And he insisted on driving me all the way home. What a kind man! There was now no doubt in my mind that he was genuinely fond of me. Yet for six whole weeks he never made the least effort to submit the other report he’d promised me since the beginning.

Now all this was forgotten: happy as a child, he nattered on about new projects to be conducted in the name of our friendship. Sadly, I was unable to share in his joy, so I couldn’t really answer any of his questions. The whole time he spoke I could think only of that terrible dream.

Finally I was seized by a desperate impatience. “Yes, right away, as soon as we can,” I muttered.

Everything and everyone I passed on the streets wore the ghostly pallor of the nightmare that by now had invaded my entire being. I made my way through the streets of my neighborhood, living among the living, until we arrived at my home and I knocked on the door with dread.

The dread persisted right up until I saw with my own eyes Emine’s face lighting up in joy. You might say I didn’t really wake up until I saw her. She’d become a little thin, but the same warmth was there in her neck and in her hands. And there she was, really and truly standing before me, smiling with her usual warmth and good cheer. Her smile brought back all I thought I had lost.

I went upstairs with Dr. Ramiz, who suddenly cried, “The Blessed One!” He ran over to the family heirloom: immaculate and shining, it was standing triumphantly in its rightful place once again.

I looked at my wife in surprise.

Laughing, she confessed: “What can I say? So much has happened to us that even I began believing in these things. I took it out last week. Doesn’t look too bad, eh? That spot seemed so empty without him.”

Dr. Ramiz had forgotten all about us; unaware that little Zehra had wobbled up to him, her hand extended for a kiss, he was down on his knees, engrossed in the old clock. Written on his face was the joy of being reunited with a long-lost love. Emine smiled, looking first at me and then at him, as if to ask, “Where did you find this one?” I shrugged my shoulders and took advantage of our new uncle’s reverie to embrace my daughter once again. All was right in the world.

VI

With the passage of time, Emine’s courage and good cheer soothed my rattled nerves, and I began to forget about our strange misadventure. And perhaps more importantly, the shock and terror of that frightful dream faded away. Even the rage I felt toward Dr. Ramiz eventually dwindled; how many days had he wasted and to what absurd lengths had he gone only to pester me into having a particular kind of dream? But when he examined Emine and told me there was nothing wrong with her, I felt nothing but gratitude toward him.

Of course I spent my first few days of freedom seeking employment. I believe I already mentioned that the moment my trial began, my position was filled and I was made redundant. But one day I ran into an old teacher of mine, who suggested I visit the director of the post office in Fener. “A position has just become available,” he said. And he was right. I started work that very day, before the opening was even posted. The salary was much reduced from that of my previous job. But it wouldn’t matter at all. As long as we tightened our belts, we’d manage fine. I’d regained my freedom, my home, my children, and a world filled with people who led good and decent lives. Even the oddities and idiosyncrasies of Dr. Ramiz didn’t trouble me as they had before. And, besides, from my first week of freedom he had pulled me into a new world so bizarre that I lost the capacity to see anything strange in his behavior or disposition.

Dr. Ramiz liked to spend his time in one of the larger coffeehouses in Sehzadebası. During my stay in the Department of Justice Medical Facility, my dear friend had spoken warmly of me to all his friends at the coffeehouse — praising my various talents, my knowledge of our old ways, and my proficiency in repairing watches and clocks — and he had given them a poignant account of my life’s adventures, highlighting in particular the details pertaining to my illness, so that when I stepped foot in the establishment, a cry of joy exploded from the patrons.

I was welcomed as an old friend and hero of the day. Dr. Ramiz stopped everyone who passed by our table, introducing me by saying, “This man here has conquered a true father complex. You see before you the most important patient of my career,” whereupon he would tell the whole story again in full detail.

“Now the man understands both his disease and its treatment. Truly an extraordinary individual, and one who has an impressive store of cultural knowledge, not to mention his tremendous willpower — oh dear me — thanks to which he conjured such a dream!” He would say all this while vigorously rubbing my back, and then he’d launch into his absurd rendition of my life.

One might expect he’d finish his exposé with “Come now and take a few steps for your uncle,” or “Haven’t you memorized a new poem? Why don’t you recite it for these nice gentlemen?”

At first I was really quite flustered by all the attention and rather fearful of the consequences. But indeed this was a very strange place, one where no one ever seemed surprised by anything and no subject was ever explored for very long. Here a man was accepted for who he was, with all his idiosyncrasies, shortcomings, and defects. And the more flaws the better, although this didn’t mean you were absolved of anything. On the contrary, nothing was ever forgotten: events and details were lodged forever in the collective memory of the group. Indeed this communal information became as immutable as the traits of an uncompromising personality, as defiant as a name or date of birth inscribed in a passport. Years later we saw one of these coffeehouse acquaintances win a seat in the National Assembly. His success as a politician was most alarming, but in this peculiar coffeehouse he remained a fixture in the collective memory of the place; when his name came up in conversation everyone still remembered the same old things and passed the same judgments.